


The Dice Was Loaded From the Start

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Minor Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 15:11:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6810475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monty is not enthused about being on a casino boat. He's a math teacher. He knows gambling is a scam. This is really not his thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dice Was Loaded From the Start

Really, Monty thinks, the school is to blame for the whole drunken mess. After all, they're the ones who decided it would be a good idea to celebrate the end of the year with a booze cruise, on a casino ship, and supply free alcohol and chips to a bunch of exhausted, rundown teachers, half drunk on freedom and summer before they even get started on any other intoxicants. 

Not that Monty's particularly excited about any of it to begin with. He likes most of his coworkers well enough, but he's never really been that into gambling, and being on a boat doesn't make it any better. The appeal for him is the free booze, and while free booze is cool, he'd probably rather just pay for it and have some sort of private party with his actual friends.

"It's just because you're a math teacher," says Clarke. "So you know all gambling is a ripoff."

" _Everyone_ should know gambling is a ripoff," Monty grumbles. "If it wasn't a ripoff, casinos wouldn't be good businesses. You don't have to be good at math to see it's a scam."

"The real problem is that you're not making your own fun, like me and Clarke," Bellamy says.

"Yeah, that too. You want in on this?"

Bellamy and Clarke have, as usual, chosen to manifest their weird sexual tension with some kind of private context, in this case making bets on who'll do better at craps (which, honestly, gambling _about gambling_ is some next-level shit) and also coming up with a general casino boat drinking game. Monty would say he doesn't understand straight people, but since Bellamy and Clarke aren't straight either, he mostly just doesn't understand _them_. Then again, given how long it's been since he's had a flirtation, let alone a relationship, he probably shouldn't throw stones.

"I'm good." He sighs. "Counting cards is still frowned on, right? That's the only thing that would make this fun. What's the point of games with no strategy?"

"There's totally a strategy," Bellamy says. "I'm going to throw the dice better than Clarke."

"Oh, yeah," says Clarke, knocking her shoulder against his. "You have the best dice-throwing skills."

"I've got it all figured out." He grins at Monty. "Come on, it'll be fun."

"It will not," Monty says, but he follows anyway, mostly because he has nothing else to do. He's had a few drinks, which helps, but he grabs another on the way, and Clarke chugs hers and does the same. So at least they will all be wasted for whatever comes next.

The craps table is fairly busy, because apparently people think betting how how other people roll dice is fun. Monty knows, in theory, that he can figure out which bets are best and which are worst, but he's never been big on probability, and also he's drunk and doesn't care. Gambling is the worst. Why couldn't the school just give them a bonus? This is what he gets for teaching at a fancy private school. The salary is better, but not in a straightforward way.

"So, what are the terms of your bet-bet?" he asks Clarke and Bellamy.

"Whichever of us makes the most money at craps gets--what do we get?" Clarke asks.

"Bragging rights. Glory. Uh--five bucks?"

"I think it was ten bucks."

"The stakes have never been higher," he murmurs, amused in spite of himself. "Too rich for my blood."

"Should have gone with five bucks, we're alienating people," says Bellamy, and then he grins. "Dude, Miller!"

The guy running the craps table--not the dealer, he assumes, but if there's a proper term for "person running the roulette table," Monty doesn't know it, and it would probably be weird to ask Siri right in front of him--gives Bellamy a smirk and a raise of his eyebrows. He's hot, neatly trimmed beard and amused dark eyes, and Monty's pretty sure his gaze, when it shifts to him, is appreciative. Which would be nice. Monty is great and deserves to be appreciated.

"Hey," the guy says, looking back at Bellamy. "I guess you're one of the drunk teachers? I forgot your school is stupid rich."

"Yup. This is Monty and, uh, Clarke." From the way he says it and the craps guy's expression, this is not his first time talking about Clarke. "Guys, this is Miller. We went to college together. I forgot you were working here now," he adds to Miller.

"Just a few nights a week. How drunk are you?"

"Not enough. We need to play. Clarke and I have a bet."

"Already? You're betting before you start playing?"

"They're overachievers," says Monty.

"Yeah, I knew that. Bellamy did say we went to college together, right?" Miller gives him an unsubtle once over and smirks. "Why don't you start us off?"

"Oh, no," says Monty. "I'm just here to observe."

"Observe?"

"Drink and heckle," he clarifies. "It's kind of my thing."

"I'll go," says Clarke. "I've got a bet to win."

"Again, you're in a casino," Monty says. "The entire point is making and winning bets. You aren't special."

"Shut up and blow on the dice for me."

Monty leans over and obliges her. "Do you know what you're trying to roll?"

"No." She looks at Miller. "How do you play craps?"

"You guys aren't even that drunk," he says, shaking his head. "Just put your money down and I'll tell you if you won."

"I want to put my money opposite to Clarke's money," says Bellamy.

Monty sips his gin and tonic. "Are you allowed to drink on the job? I think you're gonna need it."

"Again, I know Bellamy pretty well. He's always been ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you don't know Bellamy _and_ Clarke," he says. "They're on their own level. They truly bring out the most in each other."

"You're so sweet," says Clarke, and rolls the dice.

The extent of Monty's craps knowledge comes from movies and TV, so he knows that two ones are snake eyes and craps is--a thing. That exists. He thinks sevens are good, but that might just be because sevens are always good. Maybe he has a bias towards sevens that they don't deserve, because of society.

"Why do we like seven again?" he asks Miller. Clarke and Bellamy are distracted with each other, so he gets the hot guy. It's not a hardship. "What makes seven special?"

"How drunk are you?"

"I'm just weird. Seven is lucky, like--all over the world. It's lucky in Japan. Four isn't. Four and nine. Because four is _shi_ , and that also means death, and nine is _ku_ and that's--suffering? I think suffering. But seven is still lucky, even though it's _shichi_ and that's, like, half death."

Miller seems more amused than disdainful at this outburst, at least. That's more than Monty was expecting. "I didn't know that."

"I was really into anime in high school."

"I thought I was too, but apparently not like you were. Gotta up my otaku game."

"My best friend wanted to learn Japanese and I went with it. I never got very good, but I read a lot about it."

"Cool. What do you teach?"

"Math."

"And you don't want to play craps?"

"Never tell me the odds. Because I know the odds. And the odds are bad. I don't even teach probability and I know the odds are bad."

Miller snorts. "Odds are better in craps than a lot of things. And it's not your money. So just go for it." 

He has the dice in his hand, offering them to Monty, and Bellamy and Clarke are watching them with interest, which is what really convinces him. He doesn't really like the calculating look in Clarke's expression. And, honestly, who's Clarke to judge him for flirting? Clarke and Bellamy have been failing to make out for a year; they are failures. Monty is light years ahead of both of them. 

"So, I just roll a seven?"

"Roll whatever you want," Miller says. "Everyone's betting on what you roll, so just get a number and you'll make someone happy."

"You're so upbeat."

"Safe to say you bring it out in him," Bellamy mutters, and Clarke elbows him.

Monty takes the dice and sets his attention firmly on the table. 

"Bet first," says Miller.

"Are you feeling lucky?" 

"Am _I_?"

Monty hands him a pile of chips. "Put them somewhere good."

"That's not really part of my job description," he says, but he gives due consideration and places the bet for Monty. "Okay, you're up. Just give them a roll."

It should be the easiest thing in the world, but Monty is kind of drunk and kind of flustered, so when he throws the dice, it somehow goes _spectacularly_ wrong. Wrong on a level he did not think possible. If it wasn't so terrible, he'd maybe even be a little proud of himself.

It should happen in slow motion. The dice hit the back of the table at the worst possible angle, and Monty _knows_ angles. He likes angles a lot more than probability, and he's pretty sure if he calculated it, he would not be able to find a worse angle. 

One of them flies up and hits Bellamy in the chest; he catches it, barely, and blinks, like he's not sure what he's supposed to do with it, if it's still legal. And Miller could maybe tell him, as the craps authority, except that the other die hits Miller _in the eye_.

Like, directly in the eye. Corner first.

"Ow, fuck!" says Miller, and Monty's hands fly to his mouth in horror.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"

"That was really impressive," Clarke remarks. Monty is going to murder her. "Were you aiming?"

Monty ignores her. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"I can't believe I didn't bet on _dice hit someone in the face_ ," says Bellamy. He's still holding the die against his chest, careful and almost protective. Bellamy is weirdly invested in the sanctity of this game.

"Yeah, that would have such long odds. We would be rich," Clarke adds.

"I'm fine," Miller says, but he's still cradling his face.

"I bet that happens all the time," Bellamy adds, which is the most helpful thing he's said so far.

"First time for me," says Miller. He manages a grin for Monty. "I knew you didn't want to play, but you could have just said no."

"Oh my god," Monty moans.

"Seriously, it's fine," Miller says. He's blinking now, and his eye is watering, but he doesn't actually look permanently damaged. "I'll use it as an excuse to take my break early." He holds his hand out to Bellamy, but his attention is on Monty. Bellamy puts his die in Miller's open palm. "After you roll."

"You want me to roll _again_?" Monty asks, horrified. As far as he's concerned, this is an omen, and he doesn't even believe in omens. Sometimes, it's just a good idea to listen to the universe, and the universe is clearly telling him he was not meant to gamble.

"There's bets on this," says Miller. "Look, I'll stand behind you, so there's no way you can hit me again."

"Watch me," Monty mutters. He takes a breath. Miller is warm behind him, solid, and he wants to lean back into it.

He's way too drunk; throwing the dice is a defensive move. He needs to get out of this situation as soon as possible. Or, ideally, sooner. 

"Lucky seven," Miller says, grinning at the dice on the table. "You're a natural."

"You know that's not true," he mutters. His cheeks feel like they're on fire.

Miller waves to someone across the room and jerks his head, and another employee comes over. "I need to take my break," he says. "Can you cover?"

"What happened to your eye?" the girl asks.

"Injured in the line of duty." He offers Monty half a smile. "Come on. Get me a drink and I'll tell you about all the assholes who have pulled worse shit on purpose."

"On purpose?"

"Yup. Never work in customer service."

They get a couple drinks--well, Miller gets a beer and Monty gets water, because obviously he's had enough--and Miller takes him up to a part of the deck that's off-limits to patrons. Outside, it's just a little cool, slightly windy, and the air does wonders for his sobriety.

"So I'm not your only on-the-job injury?" he prompts, and Miller grins.

It turns out he's an actor, or wants to be, working a variety of part-time jobs while he waits for his big break. So it's not a surprise to find he's a natural storyteller, animated with a great sense of comic timing. He's got Monty giggling at a story about some dude who refused to believe he couldn't use his Starbucks rewards card at the (non-Starbucks) coffee shop where he works on weekdays, and then outright laughing at some of the gamblers' weird beliefs about what will help them win.

"I never wanted to say _Sir, please don't lick the dice_ to anyone in my life," he's saying, eyes sparkling with amusement. "It was one of those out-of-body experiences, you know? When suddenly you look at yourself and think, _this really happening, this is where I'm at_."

Monty's laughing again. "You know, I used to play D&D, and we had some weird superstitions about how to get good rolls, but--no one ever licked the dice. Ever."

"Well, maybe if you had, you would have rolled more natural twenties."

"Wait," he says, holding up his hand. "Stop. You're hot. You're funny. You know the word _otaku_ and the phrase _natural twenty_. You're inexplicably okay with me stabbing you in the face with a die. What's the catch here?"

"Man, and I thought me and Bellamy were drama queens. You're making it sound like you viciously assaulted me with a die and I had to fight you off." He nudges Monty's shoulder. "It's going to make a great story, honestly. Up there with the dude who wanted to lick the dice."

"Great, that makes me feel so much better. I'll live in infamy."

"Who said anything about infamy? It was an accident. You come off fine." He worries his lip, not looking at Monty, and Monty is a little entranced. He's so _pretty_ , and he can't quite believe when Miller adds, "You know, it's an even better story if it's how I met my boyfriend. I'd never stop getting mileage out of that one."

His mouth is dry. "So that's the catch? I date you and everything I do becomes material for future stories?"

"And I snore," says Miller.

For a minute, he pretends to be thinking it over. "Good deal," he says, and leans in to kiss Miller, tasting the smile on his lips.

"Yeah," he murmurs, sliding his hand into Monty's hair, pulling him closer. "I thought so too."

When they get back to the craps table, Monty's hair is mussed and Miller has the start of a hickey behind his jaw. Clarke and Bellamy are still there, looking as smug as anything, which doesn't even make sense, honestly, given Monty is the one who's going to get laid tonight. And he isn't waiting a year for it.

"Did Monty hit you in the neck with dice too?" Bellamy asks, poking Miller's hickey. Miller swats him off.

"I'll hit you in the neck, asshole." He reclaims the dice from the other dealer, offers them to Monty again. "Want another try?"

"Nah," he says. "I think I'm going to get lucky enough later."

Miller snorts. "Well, yeah," he agrees, putting the dice in Clarke's hand instead. "I guess when you put it like that."

**Author's Note:**

> According to Wikipedia, you DO call the craps person a dealer. Thanks, wikipedia!


End file.
